I said I’m tired and everybody nodded like that’s a normal thing to be every day. Like dragging your body across the week is just part of the job description of being alive. I said I’m tired and they said, _"Same."_ But I didn’t mean sleepy. I meant _heavy._ Like my bones forgot how to float in water, like my shadow gained weight, like joy costs more than I make right now. I meant I’m tired of being “resilient.” Of bouncing back like a rubber band snapping against the same damn wrist. Of turning wounds into wisdom when I never asked to be wise. I meant I’m tired of shrinking myself to make room for people who never learned how to listen. Of explaining my sadness like it owes anybody a backstory. Of showing up to rooms where my silence is louder than my words. Tired like the kind of lonely that sits in your mouth when you say “I’m fine” and nobody calls you out. Tired like peeling yourself out of bed feels like birthing yourself every morning just to do it all again. I don’t want to be an inspiration. I don’t want to be a fighter. I want to _rest._ To be still. To be held without asking. To cry without performing it. To be a person not the project my parents made of me. So when I say I’m tired, please don’t hand me caffeine. Don’t tell me to push through. Don’t ask me what I’ve done for myself lately. Just sit. Be quiet. Let me fall apart without fixing me. Because some days, healing looks like **nothing.** And that has to be enough.